


Riposte and Repose

by scrapbullet



Series: The Witcher ficlets [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Ficlet, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Massage, Not Beta Read, Prompt Fill, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22563805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: Geralt snarls, which is apt given his moniker. He’s every inch the threatened wolf in this moment, his fingers curved into claws that dig into the shoddy straw mattress beneath him. “I’ve already told you Jaskier. I. Can’t. Sleep.”“So you just… what? Decided to go find a Djinn, as opposed to finding a brothel or pillow house?” Sighing, Jaskier plonks his backside beside Geralt, squirming. Is that straw poking him in the balls? Hn....(Or, Jaskier persuades Geralt to sit his arse down andrestinstead of looking for a Djinn.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Witcher ficlets [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626349
Comments: 23
Kudos: 546





	Riposte and Repose

**Author's Note:**

> First foray into the fandom, as well as suffering from writers block - thus, I am petrified. This was a prompt, again from my lovely Chris (Sweet nothings, Protective, Manipulation) which, once again, doesn't REALLY fit, but to hell with it, I hope you like it anyway m'love.
> 
> Not beta read.

“It wont work.”

Geralt is stone - if stone were an ill-tempered wildcat glowering at its impertinent prey. He sits on the bed - a bed in a room in an inn in a village so inconsequential that Jaskier can't even be bothered to remember its name - looking surly and cantankerous and every word one can possibly think, amber eyes alight with such a scowl that _honestly, is that really appropriate?_

“It would if you sat your arse down and _tried_.” Jaskier exhalts, with flair, because that’s just what he does. 

Regardless of how much he does it, Geralt never seems to look impressed. Shame. Jaskier had rubbed himself down with lavender oil just for him, and he doesn’t even appreciate it. 

Geralt snarls, which is apt given his moniker. He’s every inch the threatened wolf in this moment, his fingers curved into claws that dig into the shoddy straw mattress beneath him. “I’ve already told you Jaskier. I. Can’t. Sleep.”

“So you just… what? Decided to go find a Djinn, as opposed to finding a brothel or pillow house?” Sighing, Jaskier plonks his backside beside Geralt, squirming. Is that straw poking him in the balls? Hn.

Geralt, crabby lug that he is, just eyes Jaskier like he’s filth incarnate, before finally his rigid shoulders lower and his eyes shutter closed. He looks tired. No, that isn’t the right word. Exhausted? Burned out. Haggard and dog-tired. Jaskier feels his heart tug with sympathy. 

“You’re an idiot,” Jaskier says, and tugs at his dear Witcher’s shirt, enticing Geralt to lay down on the lumpy mattress. “Pretty, but an idiot. A Djinn would’ve demanded a price to be paid, and I can’t imagine it’d have much use for coin.”

“A Djinn would have talked less,” Geralt murmurs in reply, but allows himself to be led nonetheless. 

“Ah.” Jaskier smiles, and now that he’s worn the White Wolf down he sets his clever, calloused fingers to work. _Gently does it._ Light little circles over the temples and forehead, massaging, soothing. “Probably, but I doubt it would have done this for you, hmm?”

“What, irritate me to sleep?”

“You bitch because you love me.”

“Mm, perhaps.” Geralt hums, a deep and rumbling thing. Like a great, lumbering beast his chest rises and falls, and oh… he really does seem to be at the end of his tether, doesn’t he? The White Wolf of Rivia, so overworked and unappreciated…

“Here, now, all you needed was a little care,” Jaskier hums, and each pass of his fingers seems to ease Geralt just that little bit more. Fingers card idly through Geralt’s hair, pulling free the tie that - no doubt - strains and irritates an oversensitive scalp. “Rest. _Relax._ We have all the time in the world.”

 _Well_. Until noon tomorrow, but hey, who’s counting?

“Jas…” Not Geralt, it seems, who swats at Jaskier with one big paw - but does not touch. Just a flail, really, and Melitele that’s _adorable_. 

It takes a while. Geralt fights it - because _of course he does_ \- even as he yearns for it. But Jaskier keeps at it, humming a somnolent, balmy tune. A rub here and a rub there - down that thick neck and onto stiff shoulders, and lo, the mighty Geralt veritably _melts_.

“It’s a good thing I love you,” Jaskier says, before pressing a chaste kiss to the sweet swell of his jaw.

Geralt softens, snuffles, and snores like a bear.


End file.
